


Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt

by vampyrekat



Series: Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt [1]
Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Glenya, I just want to get this posted so I have an obligation to edit the next chapter, More tags will be added as more characters appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyrekat/pseuds/vampyrekat
Summary: “I can’t lose this job. They’re not easy to come by.” Her explanation stopped his thoughts in their tracks, and he felt bad for suspecting her. She was a good Russian, hardworking and dedicated, and his furrowed brow relaxed as she added, “But - thank you.” She clutched her broom to her chest like the lifeline it was for her, and then she smiled at him.He felt like she’d punched him in the stomach.The show, but focused on Gleb and Anya's relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

A deputy commissioner was not technically required to go on patrols every day. Gleb Vaganov worked in an office - with heat, he thought ruefully, as he turned up the collar of his coat - and was only forced out into the Russian weather when a case called for further investigation. But he liked to be outside, away from the pages and among the people. There had been rumors, recently, whispers of the return of the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Such a return was impossible, as Gleb knew better than most, but a stronger show of force from all government officials had been recommended, and Gleb had been happy to take the chance.

He’d had to chase a gossiping man off the street - Dmitry was the name the old woman had given - who was complaining about the new order. It was hard, yes, but complaining had never made anything easier. At least with the Tsar gone, people’s troubles were their own, and not the result of the selfishness of the old government. Growing pains, that’s all it was. And today, the Nevsky Prospekt was lovely in its blanket of ice and snow, and Gleb was in no hurry to return to his cramped desk in the communal office, heat or no heat.

A backfiring truck caught his attention for a moment but then the street sweeper in front of him fell to her knees with a shriek of terror, her broom flying from her hands as she covered her ears. Her whole body convulsed as she repeated the word ‘no’, trying to make herself as small as possible. Gleb was no stranger to this sort of thing - the wounds of the revolution ran deep, physically and otherwise. He collected her broom before kneeling in front of her, touching her hand lightly. She flinched away, her breath hitching.

“It was only a truck backfiring, comrade,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Those days are over - neighbors against neighbors.” He offered the broom to her, gently. “There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

She looked up at him as another shudder hit her, and Gleb almost swallowed his tongue. Her hair was like a sunshine against the snow, and her expression - something about the open vulnerability there begged for protection. He’d never regretted the choices that led to the revolution before, but  the sharp, emaciated cut of her cheekbone made his heart ache. Her eyes narrowed only slightly, moving from despair to confusion as another shiver wracked her frame.

“You’re shaking,” he said stupidly, as if she was unaware of her own body where she knelt in the snow. She gave him a questioning look - no wonder, what was he _thinking_ \- and tugged the broom from his hands. He continued, mouth outpacing his brain, “There’s a tea shop, just steps from here -”

“Thank you,” she cut him off in a rush, and he stood, brushed snow from his pants and tried not to be offended.

“What’s your hurry?”

It was unusual for someone to turn down an invitation to tea with an officer; in a world where a can of beans could buy almost anything, hot tea was a luxury. The friendship of an officer was worth even more, and Gleb had found himself with few friends and plenty of acquaintances who wanted favors from him. To turn down an invitation meant that there was something to hide, and his mind spun, trying to find a crime that the woman in front of him could have committed. Theft? Not enough to attract the attention of a deputy commissioner, not that she could know it. Something more, then?

“I can’t lose this job. They’re not easy to come by.” Her explanation stopped his thoughts in their tracks, and he felt bad for suspecting her. She was a good Russian, hardworking and dedicated, and his furrowed brow relaxed as she added, “But - thank you.” She clutched her broom to her chest like the lifeline it was for her, and then she  _ smiled  _ at him.

He felt like she’d punched him in the stomach.

She was nervous, and she’d been shaking to pieces in the snow not a minute before, and somehow her smile still made Gleb feel like someone had poured sunshine behind his ribcage. Gleb was struck dumb as she turned - he didn’t get her name - was rooted to the spot as she hurried away - he didn’t get her  _ name _ \- and barely pulled himself together enough to shout, “I’m here every day!” after her.

And then she was gone, and he supposed he’d just have to find a reason to walk to Nevsky Prospekt daily. He didn’t let himself think how stupid it was to hope, not when the glow she’d left behind his ribs lingered for hours and warmed him from the inside out. Revolutions didn’t happen for  _ love _ , but - he  _ would _ be there every day, if he had the hope of feeling like this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The legitimacy of this government will not be challenged, even by a street sweeper. If you really were who you’re pretending to be, they would kill you without hesitation.” He sighed. “Only, you’re not, because the Romanovs are gone. My family lived across the street from where they were held, and I can assure you: they no longer exist. My father saw to that.”

“Thank you, sir. Your confidence in me _will_ be justified.” Gleb laughed, glanced out the window again, enjoying the luxury of doing so. “My own office, with a view of the Nevsky Prospekt! A Russian telephone that works!”

There was a disapproving silence on the other end, and then the flat statement: “I can hear you fine, Vaganov.”

Gleb cringed. “No, that was a joke. We have wonderful telephones.”

Another officer stepped into the room, interjecting, “She’s here,” before vanishing to retrieve the ‘she’ in question. Gleb could’ve kissed him. “Sir, our little troublemaker has been found.”

“Handle it.” _Click,_ then silence on the line. He hung up the phone and looked out the window pensively. He’d done this act before, to frighten citizens back onto the straight and narrow; heart-to-hearts did little to quash dissent among the sort of people who were brought into his office. Gleb heard timid footsteps behind him - that would be their false Anastasia - and hummed quietly.

“A remarkable city, our Leningrad. All those people down there, coming and going, creating a future for themselves. I stand at this window for hours, admiring them.” He slowly turned up the menace as he continued, “And wondering why a few bad apples are getting up to mischief instead.” He leaned forward slightly. “I can see all the way to the old Yusupov palace.” He tsked, eyes fixed firmly on the view. “Funny business going on there. _Counter-revolutionary behavior,_ some would say.”

“Why was I brought here?” The false Anastasia - Anya, the other women had named her - asked finally. Her voice was impressively steady for a woman challenging a man who could have her put in front of a firing squad.

“I thought you could tell me, comrade,” he growled, turning sharply on his heel to face her -

Then drawing up short, almost stumbling. It was the young street sweeper with sunshine in her smile, the one who he hadn’t been able to find again. The one who apparently had the ability to make his mouth form words without engaging his brain in the slightest, because he was babbling. “ _You!_ The - the frightened little street sweeper!” There was an uncomfortable pause as Anya stared at him and he half-smiled at her like a fool. “I’d begun to wonder if I’d ever see you again. I see you’ve stopped shaking, that’s good.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she said carefully. She was a true Russian, and he couldn’t fault her instinctive fear of his uniform.

“I’m glad to see you again. Anya, am I right?”

She jolted slightly. “How do you know my name?”

“The women who reported you mentioned it.” He smiled, tried to dispel the sense of menace he’d built up. “I’m deputy commissioner Gleb Vaganov. It’s the uniform and the office that give the bad impression; I’m really not so bad.” He grinned at her as he moved to his desk and unbuttoned the top button of his coat. He caught what might have been a smile on her face, and he continued, "See? I have a sense of humor. A small one, but that’s better than none in these turbulent times.” The smile had slipped away and he noticed - too late, again! - that she was shivering. “You’re shaking again! A friendly cup of tea will warm us both up.”

He poured two cups of tea as she slipped into the chair before his desk. Despite the shivering, her voice was eerily even when she asked, “What’s the charge?”

“There is no charge, and why should there be?” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a job, food on the table - your own place in the new order of things.”

“I’m very thankful,” she said dutifully, with a smile that held none of the warmth. He pushed a cup of tea across the table to her and she took it but did not drink.

“Which is why I’m warning you to leave your world of make believe, before it’s too late.”

“I don’t understand,” she replied, beautifully following the script laid out for citizens called into a deputy commissioner’s office.  Gleb knew she was well aware of the danger; something in her eyes made the words ring false despite her steady voice.

“The legitimacy of this government will not be challenged, even by a street sweeper. If you really were who you’re pretending to be, they would kill you without hesitation.” He sighed. “Only, you’re not, because the Romanovs are gone. My family lived across the street from where they were held, and I can assure you: they no longer exist. My father saw to that.”

She came alive for the first time since entering his office, free hand gesturing as she tried to explain, “Everyone imagines being someone else, I’m no different. It’s an innocent enough fantasy-!”

“ _No_ , Anya. A dangerous one.” He sighed and sat down across from her. “Look at what you’ve built for yourself, and be thankful for it. You’re a strong, beautiful -” He felt the blush creep up his neck and tried to ignore it. “- young Russian woman, part of the new order. There’s no reason to throw that away for a story some conmen told you.”

“- you’re right,” she said, too easily he knew, but he was entranced by the amused smile that was playing around her lips. If embarrassing himself got her to smile, he’d do it more often. In the moment, though, he was a deputy commissioner with responsibilities, and so he continued, more seriously.

“Don’t let yourself get led astray, Anya. If you need help,” he took a breath, steeled himself for more embarrassment, “I would be glad to give it. I know a young woman on her own might need - friends to turn to, in times like these. Maybe -” He broke off, looked away for a moment. His mouth had almost outpaced his brain again. “You haven’t drank your tea.”

“I’m late for work as it is.” She stood, set the cup on his desk with reverent care, but her eyes were frightened, all the warmth having gone again.

“Always in a hurry,” he commented lightly. She gave him a polite, almost frightened smile.

“Thank you for your warning, comrade.”

He smiled as brightly as he could manage. “It’s Gleb, please. I hope we haven’t seen the last of each other?” He offered her his hand, and she took it timidly, glancing up at him. The light from the window hit her just right, reflecting off sky-blue eyes, and he smiled. “Your eyes! A man could look right into them --”

He leaned closer, just a bit, and her eyes flashed - and a gate in his memories slammed shut in front of eyes just like those, the blue suffused with terror as she was herded away. Gleb staggered back, unable to notice how startled she looked, clapped a hand over his mouth and tried to take a deep breath. _The scars of the revolution ran deep, and not always physically_ , he reminded himself. Still, he turned away, unable to meet her eyes again. No need to burden her with the gruesome details of his memories.

“Be careful, comrade.” How to tell her the danger her eyes put her in, without giving the girl false hope she was someone she was not, could not be? “They’ll - give you away,” he said finally.

“May I go?” she asked, confused and frightened in turns.

“Have I made myself clear?” he asked sharply, not sure himself which point he wanted her to understand and remember. She simply nodded.

“Yes, very. Thank you.”

“Then … we are done for today.”

She ran from the room and he stumbled back towards his desk, leaning heavily on it. The girl he’d seen as a child was dead, but Anya was very much alive, with Romanov eyes and two conmen ready to take advantage of the fact. He pressed his eyes shut and prayed that she had heeded his warnings; she was in worse danger than she knew, and he was powerless to stop he retribution she’d receive if she took this delusion much further.

Still. He smiled faintly and hummed the name he’d finally gotten, to go with her face.

“ _Anya_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, feel free to message me on [tumblr](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/)! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Reviews also motivate me to write faster, wink wink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do the police give you much trouble? If you're not still at the Yusupov Palace, they shouldn't have any reason to."
> 
> "They don't, usually." She laughed nervously and sidestepped the comment about the palace with what she hoped would be taken as a joke. "Just one, actually. A certain Vaganov, I think?"
> 
> She'd judged right. The tension bled out of his frame and he laughed. "Next time he bothers you, find out who his commanding officer is. I'll have him taken care of."

Anya treated every day since whatever accident left her bruised and bloody in the snow was a gift. Despite her new home in the theater of the former Count Yusupov's palace, she still rose before dawn and ate quickly before setting out to see the sun rise. The sunrise this morning found her on the Nevsky Prospekt, enjoying the moment before before she had to turn her gaze to the pavement at her feet. The Nevsky Prospekt was not her favorite place to work - too many people and noise - but it was where she was assigned today. It would be warmer when the sun came up fully, but for now, the cold stung at her skin. Spring was coming soon, but, she thought ruefully, not soon enough.

The scent of stale vodka breath assaulted her just before the man who owned it did, grabbing her arm with a leer. "Mornin' miss. Looking for a warm bed?"

Anya yanked her arm back and tightened her hand on her boom. "I'm working." This wasn't the first time someone had propositioned her - some of the other women who had slept under bridges and in doorways with Anya had found themselves warmer, more comfortable places in men's homes. Anya had never wanted any part of it, and usually men would accept a 'no' and move on to easier prey.

"Sweeping the streets for, what, a few rubles?" He laughed drunkenly. "Where do you intend to spend them, comrade? There's no food to be bought. Come with me, I'll give you some breakfast -"

"Leave me alone," she said firmly, and his grip tightened, tugging her towards him. She gritted her teeth and brought the broom up to smack against his head. The man stumbled back, hand pressed over his eye where he'd have a - hopefully - spectacular bruise the next day.

"You hit me!" he shouted finally, moving towards her again, and Anya raised the broom threateningly.

"I'll do it again!"

"What seems to be the problem?" a polite voice inquired. Anya glanced to the side to see Deputy Commissioner Vaganov frowning at the scene.

"This bitch hit me!" The man pointed at Anya. "What sort of -"

"I think you've had too much to drink, comrade," Vaganov interrupted conversationally. "Go home."

The man blinked a few times, but the words settled through the haze of vodka and he lurched off, still muttering darkly. Vaganov watched him go before turning to Anya.

"Anya." He shook his head slightly. "I hope you have a reason for assaulting another citizen in the streets before the sun is even up?"

"He made me an offer," she said shortly, lowering the broom and crossing her arms. "He wanted me to go home with him in exchange for 'bed and breakfast'."

"Are you alright?"

The question threw her. "It's not the first time. At least _this_ time it wasn't my boss, or a policeman -" She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. Gleb frowned for a moment before his eyes also widened, almost comically.

"You think _I_   was offering - what did you call it - bed and breakfast?” There was a mix of embarrassment and guilt in his expression, and Anya could feel her cheeks turning red. She could also feel the ice in her stomach. If her slip up bought his anger, her life would become exponentially more difficult. He'd let her off with a warning last time, but they both knew he could've had her arrested or worse.

"I assumed - you said I could come to you for help -" Only the comedic bewilderment and lack of anger in his eyes let her take a breath and keep talking. "You called me beautiful and said if I needed a friend - I've lived on the streets long enough to know how it works with the police. Some of the other women have - arrangements, but I'm not -" Her mouth snapped shut and she felt her cheeks flaming. "I hope I haven't offended you-?"

"You haven't," he managed, although his face was noticeably red too. "I think I owe you an apology, Anya. I must’ve seemed quite insulting." He gave her one of the most uncomfortable smiles she'd ever seen on another human, and she laughed awkwardly.

"It's not the worst thing that's been said to me," she allowed. "Not even the worst thing a policeman has said to me."

He straightened up at that. "Do the police give you much trouble? If you're not still at the Yusupov Palace, they shouldn't have any reason to."

"They don't, usually." She laughed nervously and sidestepped the comment about the palace with what she hoped would be taken as a joke. "Just one, actually. A certain Vaganov, I think?"

She'd judged right. The tension bled out of his frame and he laughed. "Next time he bothers you, find out who his commanding officer is. I'll have him taken care of."

"I'll be sure to ask next time." She laughed and gestured for him to come closer, which he did with only a little hesitation. She looked up at him, trying to look serious but sure her humor was evident in her eyes. "May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he replied curiously.

“Who's your commanding officer?"

He rocked back on his heels with a laugh. "You're going to report me?" He put a hand over his heart and gave her a wounded look belied by the warmth in his eyes. "After I made you tea? I should have known."

"I can't report you until I can talk to the deputy commissioner," she reassured him, "so you're safe until I get off work for the day."

"Ah, you're not giving me much incentive to let you get to work." Anya raised an eyebrow and watched the blush creep up his neck. For an officer, Gleb was remarkably easy to talk to, and he hadn't lied when he said his sense of humor was a rarity in these times. "Actually, I'm glad I found you, Anya. You're not staying with the con men anymore, am I correct?"

"You are," she lied, and he relaxed visibly.

“Good, _good_. I'd hate to have an honest woman get into trouble because of their schemes.” He raised an eyebrow. "How did you get involved with them anyway?"

 _Looking for exit papers_ was not going to work as an explanation, that she knew. Gleb wasn't privy to her dreams of Paris, and he would see only a young woman fleeing the regime he was wholeheartedly a part of. Her hesitation had him tensing again, and she answered, "I was looking for a warm place to sleep. It was a cold week, windy, and I was under the bridge. The palace should have been abandoned, and I found an unlocked door." She shrugged. "They told me that I might be who they were looking for. It seemed true." There, a lie that was very close to the truth.

“You didn’t know about their auditions?” Gleb asked curiously.

“The _auditions?_ ” Anya frowned. “What auditions?”

“They were running what they called ‘auditions’, looking for a Grand Duchess Anastasia. They said it was for a play.” He watched her carefully, and Anya tried to suppress her confusion and rising anger. She knew they’d been looking for someone when she walked in, but she hadn’t realized she was walking into the perfect trap. Gleb continued, “That’s how I learned your name; the women they turned away came to my office. They assured me you weren’t a threat, but I can’t ignore Romanov rumors." He smiled. “It seems it all turned out for the best, at least. I was worried I’d never see you again.”

Anya tried to shove the roiling mass of emotions she felt towards Vlad and Dmitry down. She couldn’t show them to Gleb, and - he was being kind. Even if he wasn’t an officer, it would be unfair to make him bear the brunt of her anger towards her 'friends'. “I’m assigned all over the city. I go where I’m needed.”

He smiled broadly. “You’re a very hard worker, Anya. It’s an admirable quality.”

“Thank you, comrade.” She dropped into a curtsy, a joke she and Vlad had started, and didn’t realize until she caught Gleb’s panicked eyes what he might think. She swallowed and gave him a nervous smile. “You’re quite the gentleman.”

His answering smile was on edge. “Gleb, please. There’s no need for ‘comrade’, not between friends.”

“Thank you, Gleb.” The words made him relax again and Anya wished for a moment that he wasn’t an officer, that they could be two people talking without the suspicion of a policeman between them.

“I’m _very_ glad I found you, Anya.” He shifted uncomfortably and took a deep breath. “I asked about the con men because I’ll be traveling outside of Leningrad for the next few weeks. I wanted to make sure you were alright before I left. If you were brought before another officer, they might not be so _gentlemanly_.” There was a strained edge to his voice, and they both knew she hadn’t been lying earlier when she’d said that policemen often took advantage of women in situations like hers. Gleb had been kind, letting her off with a warning and expecting nothing in return.

“Thank you,” she said, more genuinely, then frowned. “Traveling? For what?”

“My new position requires me to represent our government in many situations,” he said evasively, “and unfortunately, Russia reaches beyond Leningrad.”

“Congratulations on the promotion.” She glanced down at her shoes. She’d be leaving in the next few weeks too, which meant this was goodbye. It was a shame - he might’ve been a policeman, but she’d been enjoying their conversation, enjoying the idea that they might be friends someday. Perhaps some of the wistfulness bled through; he reached out and gently coaxed her chin up. The warmth from his fingers left a trail of goosebumps against her skin and she met his gaze with wide eyes. His hand lingered for a moment before falling away.

“I’d rather stay here, but it’s not up to me. You get assigned around the city; I get assigned around the country. We all do what we must.” He hesitated for a moment, and Anya raised an eyebrow. “When I come back, we could go to that tea shop. Now that we’ve established I’m not trying to proposition you, perhaps you’ll even drink it.”

His nervous smile earned him a laugh. "I’d like that.” She grinned playfully. “Will you still be on the Nevsky Prospekt ‘every day’ when you return?”

“For you, I think I can manage that.”

She smiled - too awkwardly - and glanced at the noticeably-risen sun. “I have to get to work, Gleb.” He nodded slowly and released her hand.

“Of course. My apologies for keeping you so long.”

“It was a pleasure,” she assured him, genuinely, and he smiled.

“It’ll seem like a very long trip,” he said, and inclined his head slightly before heading towards his office. Anya watched him for a moment, not liking the pang in her heart. Did she truly have so few friends that the loss of a policeman as a _potential_ friend would bother her? Perhaps it was just that the conversation had reminded her of her soon-to-be departure from Russia. Gleb Vaganov, friendly as he was, would be left behind in the Russia, along with everything else she’d ever known.

With a sigh, she set to sweeping the street. _My dreams need me in Paris_ , she reminded herself fiercely. _Not St. Petersburg ._  Regardless of if she was Anastasia or just the easiest woman Vlad and Dmitry had found to manipulate, she was going to Paris. Even if she wasn't the Grand Duchess, she'd get what she'd gone to Dmitry for, and, she reflected, all of this was assuming Gleb wasn't lying to her. But he seemed so open with her, and he took her word when she said she wasn't part of Vlad and Dmitry's plan. She couldn't help but trust him.

Besides, their conversation had left a warmth in her that didn’t quite abate, despite the snow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to say it, at least once.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I needed to see if it felt right.” Dmitry looked ready to argue, but Vlad cut him off.
> 
> “You’ll have plenty of time to practice. When we get to Paris -”
> 
> “To ‘practice’? Is that what you told the Anastasias you didn’t pick?”

The silence in the train compartment as they pulled away from the station was eerie. Anya stared out the window, watching the city she’d come to call home recede into the distance, and she thought. Gleb’s words had been spinning circles in her head since the afternoon before, the idea that Vlad and Dmitry had been lying to her from the start haunting her. A month ago, she would never have thought she was the Grand Duchess; yesterday morning, she had almost believed it herself. Today, she thought of all the other women who had wanted to be the con men’s Anastasia, and wondered if it would’ve been better if one of them was on the train. She’d trusted Dmitry with her diamond, and he hadn’t betrayed her. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t conning her, it just meant they both wanted to go to Paris.

The small compartment they’d gotten held Vlad, Dmitry, and Anya, as well as a man who, now that there was nothing to see outside, was lighting a cigarette. She was abruptly irritated, probably with her companions and not with him, but she didn’t care.

“How dare you smoke in my presence?” Anya asked sharply, and the man stared at her in naked disbelief. Across the compartment, Vlad and Dmitry’s eyes widened.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I am,” she said with a surge of anger, “the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Vlad and Dmitry stare fixedly outside their respective windows. The man sitting next to her laughed and stood.

“I beg your pardon, royal highness!” He gathered his items and bowed mockingly before he left, muttering about being in a compartment with a crazy woman.

“Why would you do that?” Dmitry demanded.

“I wanted to say it, at least once.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I needed to see if it felt right.” Dmitry looked ready to argue, but Vlad cut him off.

“You’ll have plenty of time to practice. When we get to Paris -”

“To ‘practice’? Is that what you told the Anastasias you didn’t pick?”

The two shared a shocked look and Vlad asked, delicately, “What do you mean, Anya?”

“Gleb told me you had auditions for an Anastasia before I came in.” She narrowed her eyes. “It must’ve been very convenient that I found you when I did.”

“Who’s Gleb?” Dmitry asked.

“The officer I told you about. Deputy Commissioner Vaganov.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not important, Dmitry.”

“You think a policeman is going to be honest with you?” Dmitry scoffed. “You’ve lived in Petersburg enough to know they’ll lie through their teeth if they think they can catch you. And _speaking of_ ,” Dmitry stood up and began to pace the compartment, “why were you talking to a policeman anyway?” There was an accusatory note to his tone, like she had somehow betrayed them.

“We’re friends.” Anya stood up and lifted her chin, staring Dmitry in the eye, before faltering. “Or, we were, at least. He wasn’t lying to me.”

“Oh, friends with a policeman!” Dmitry threw his hands in the air. “At least you didn’t sell us out.”

“We thought auditions would be the easiest way to find Anastasia,” Vlad interrupted calmly, also standing and putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s not easy to find a missing Romanov in this political climate.”

Anya narrowed her eyes at him, knew Dmitry had that telltale catch in his breath that meant he was waiting to see her reaction before reacting himself. Which meant …. Vlad was lying. She wasn’t surprised, not really, but she was certainly upset. She took a deep breath.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said finally, calmly, shaking Vlad’s hand off and leaving the compartment.

The hallway was quiet, the compartment doors shut. There was quiet chatter but no laughter from behind the doors, the way Anya had subconsciously expected. But it was a midnight train for those fleeing the country; small wonder no one was laughing.She paced the length of the train in a haze, turning over her thoughts, even though she’d spent the last day doing just that. She and Dmitry had almost been friendly last night, between him quizzing her about Anastasia’s past and his anger at her for hiding the diamond - after he’d hidden their situation, she thought, only a little bitterly - and now, she was afraid whatever camaraderie had been between them was shattered. But even if they weren't  _friends_ , he had gotten them on this train. They were companions.

 _Paris_ , she thought in wonderment. For all his faults, Dmitry had gotten them on the train. She couldn’t be that angry. That didn’t mean she would forget about her doubts, but perhaps it wasn’t really important.

Ahead of her, someone slipped into a compartment and slammed the door too harshly, breaking her concentration. She sighed and began striding back towards her compartment. She’d apologize, for the sake of harmony between her traveling companions, and they’d continue on, just as they always had. And - who’s to say that Dmitry and Vlad were wrong? She drew up short. All the times she’d given Vlad details before he taught them to her, all the shocked looks Dmitry had given her. _Was_ she Anastasia? She’d been running to Paris with no end goal - perhaps she’d always been running towards the Dowager Empress without knowing it.

Either way, her plan was the same: best to wait and see.

She slipped back into the compartment. “I’m sorry, to both of you.”

“It’s us who should be apologizing to you, Anya,” Vlad assured her, and they both ignored Dmitry’s sour look. “We should have been honest from the beginning.”

“Yes.” She softened, smiled at them. “But I’ve been going to Paris for the past ten years. Maybe you’re right about me, and if you’re not -”

“If not, we’re out of Russia, and we can choose a new plan,” Dmitry interjected, with an answering smile. “Nothing lost.”

She sank into her seat with a smile, and glanced towards Vlad. “What were you saying before I left?” Vlad coughed.

“When we reach Paris, you’ll first have to convince the Dowager Empress’s lady in waiting...”

==

They’d chattered excitedly about their plans for Paris and hopes for the future, even tossed around a few plans for what they’d do if the Dowager Empress _wouldn’t_ see them, or didn't recognize Anya, or any number of things went wrong. The humming of the train had eventually lulled them into a quiet meditation, and then the door slammed open. All three of them sat upright instantly, the book that had lain ignored in Anya’s lap snapping up into a reading position.

“Papers.”

Vlad composed himself first, yawning widely and asking, “Is there a problem, sir?”

“We’re looking for someone who’s illegally leaving the country.”

Anya felt her heart stop but she kept her eyes on the book before her.

“Didn’t have the right papers, eh?” Vlad joked. The officer stared at him humorlessly.

“He had the right papers. He had the wrong name. _Count_ Ipolitov.”

A gunshot rang through the train and several people screamed. Anya wormed her way into Dmitry’s arms without thinking, her face pressed into the collar of his shirt and her eyes shut tight. The guard was gone - to check on the disturbance? - and Anya couldn’t quiet the hoarse, choppy sobs coming from her throat. Dmitry patted her on the back as he and Vlad talked, and then Vlad left, but Anya was beyond hearing, the gunshots sending spurts of red blood behind her eyelids, crimson darkening as it spread through light fabric -

“We’ll be safe soon,” Dmitry soothed, and Anya’s head came up to meet his gaze.

“That’s what the soldiers said when they pointed their guns at us.” Her voice was still hoarse from tears but it was emotionless. “They said they were taking us somewhere _safe_. Joy’s little heart was beating against mine - ‘They’re decent men’, I told him, ‘they won’t hurt us’ -”

Dmitry grabbed her hand and pressed his other hand to her face. “No one is pointing guns at you, Anya, you’re taking it too far - we’re almost out of Russia -”

“What if I am really her?” she burst out, tears blurring her vision.

“- once we cross the border, we’ll be safe,” he continued calmly. “It won’t be like this in Paris.”

“Who do you think I am?” she demanded. Dmitry shifted.

“I - I don’t know.”

She let out a laugh that was almost a sob. “You put these - these _ideas_ into my head and I’m starting to think they might be true.”

Dmitry’s face was an indescribable emotion somewhere between guilt and fear when Vlad burst in.

“I’m having a heart attack,” he announced. “Three officers just came aboard, with orders to arrest two men, and a woman.”

“That could be anyone!” Dmitry protested, but Anya was already on her feet, grabbing her suitcase as Vlad did the same, pausing only to stare at Dmitry in disbelief.

“I don’t think so!”

The situation seemed to sink in and Dmitry grabbed his suitcase. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re getting off,” Anya said firmly, and when Vlad protested, she simply added, “Unless you want to end up with Count Ipolitov?”

The three of them entered the hallway, walking quickly, heads down. Anya brought up the rear of their little procession, trailing behind Dmitry as Vlad led them to the door. He hesitated a moment and then Dmitry shoved him towards the door, following quickly. Anya glanced back nervously, and froze.

The uniform was what imprinted itself on her first, and then the wide eyes between the hat and collar. Anya could almost see the wheels turning in Deputy Commissioner Vaganov’s mind - which meant she had a matter of seconds, no time to explain or apologize like she wanted to. She turned to the door, grabbing blindly, and she felt his fingertips brush her wrist as she swung to the outside of the train. His voice cut through the wind that was whipping past - “ _Anya!_ ” - but she gritted her teeth and jumped, throwing her suitcase before herself and rolling through the half-melted snow.

The train rattled on, and she picked herself up. She’d have to track backwards and find Vlad and Dmitry, but she’d crossed Russia on foot. A little spring snow wasn’t a problem. Gleb knowing she had left Russia, and that she’d jumped from the train - that was going to be a problem.

She groaned and started walking.

==

“They were on the train, we know that much. They could only have jumped off.” Gleb gritted his teeth. “The girl is quite possibly a victim of the men’s manipulations.”

“That is not important. We need to put an end to these rumors of Anastasia.”

“No Romanov could’ve survived, sir. I heard the shots, the silence afterwards -”

“You think the _truth_ matters in this, Vaganov?” The officer laughed, short and sharp like a gunshot. “If they can use her as a symbol of hope, she is a danger. Follow her to Paris. If she’s not Anastasia, bring her back.”

“And,” Gleb took a deep breath, hoped the man wouldn’t read too much into the question, “if she _is_ Anastasia?”

“Finish the job for your father like a good son.” The officer’s sneer was almost audible. “It’s not that hard, Vaganov. You point the gun, you pull the trigger -”

“I understand, sir.”

“Enjoy the promotion, deputy commissioner. And, Vagnov?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you come back without dealing with her, I’ll have you shot myself. There can be _no_ failure in this.”

Silence on the line, again. Gleb put the phone down and leaned his forehead against the wall of the unfamiliar police office he’d commandeered. _Anya_ . He gritted his teeth. She’d been lying the last time they’d spoken, then. He slammed his palm against the wall, the sting helping to ground him as he started to pace. He’d tried to help her and she’d thrown it back in his face, running away with con men to go to Paris, to find the Dowager Empress and pass herself off as the Grand Duchess, to destabilize the regime, to undo _everything_ Gleb had dedicated his life to.

She likely didn’t mean to. She had said herself that she was taken in by the con men, and even if she was lying about having left them, her story had seemed true otherwise. And before, she’d told him that she had just wanted to be _somebody_. If only she’d picked a somebody who wasn’t a danger to the government - !

His father hadn’t had to deal with these questions, he was sure. The revolution was necessary. What had killed his father wasn’t _shame_ , simply … stress. Sickness. The lingering starvation of living under the Romanovs. Besides, Gleb had pulled the trigger on Count Ipolitov not twenty-four hours ago, and he wasn’t bothered by that. That had been _duty_. Anya was innocent, or so he hoped, and the idea of killing an innocent didn’t sit well with him.

He’d just have to find out the truth for himself. He stood taller, straightened his uniform. He was obligated to find out what was true, and react accordingly. Anya _could not_ be the Princess Anastasia, which meant there was more discovering to do. He’d find himself a set of plain clothes, he’d go to France - his French was passable, if not good - and he’d find a way to keep the situation under control.

Those blue eyes haunted him every step of the way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve never seen you out of uniform,” she replied noncommittally. Privately, she had to admit it was a shock. The three-piece suit flattered him, but between that and the mask, it was no real surprise she hadn’t seen him before he’d caught her. She’d always seen the uniform, she realized, and not really the man wearing it. “How did you talk your way in?”  
> He laughed, short and sharp, spinning her within the circle of his right arm. “Royalty is not hard to fool.”  
> She arched an eyebrow and realized the motion was lost behind her mask. “I recognized you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may recognize, this is an adapted version of my other fic. There are enough edits that I think you should at least skim it, and as payment for not giving you new material, I've also uploaded the same scene but written from Gleb's POV. It can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11380170)!.

Paris was everything Anya had hoped for and then some. From the moment they’d crested the hill to when she’d collapsed into the hotel bed that night, it had been a whirlwind of color and beauty and excitement. Except, she had to admit, reaching the bridge of her dreams. She hadn’t ever dreamed she’d stand there, exactly as it was in pictures, without someone next to her. In her dreams, her family was next to her as she crossed into her new life; in reality, she had stood alone as the lamps were lit.

The next morning, at breakfast, Vlad brought her and Dmitry up to speed. Now that they were done traveling, they were going to have to make their approach. The Neva Club was where most the Russian former-aristocracy spent their nights, and tonight they were having a masquerade ball. Without any better way to contact Lily - or, hopefully, the empress - he had procured three tickets for them.

“We’ll need to acquire appropriate outfits, but this is our best plan.” Vlad had sighed.

And that’s how Anya found herself slipping into the Neva Club on the arm of Count Popov, Dmitry trailing along behind. The men wore simple suits and masks and Anya had been dressed in a white, very fashionable and _very_ Parisian dress with a simple white mask. The club was shabby around the edges, the same way the people who frequented it were. Dmitry snorted derisively at the royals around them, but Anya was entranced. The glamour was worn, but there was something unsettlingly familiar about it. Next to the easy grace of the women, she felt like a child again. She remembered parts of being Anastasia, but she'd been Anya for a decade, and Anya was a worker who slept under a bridge and didn't belong at a party like this.

She was broken out of her thoughts by Vlad slapping her hand into Dmitry’s. “Go dance, you two. Keep busy until the Dowager arrives. God knows I paid enough for the invitations. I’m going to find Lily.” Dmitry’s rant about the Russian aristocracy was cut short as Vlad pushed them towards the dance floor. Anya laughed at his obvious discomfort; he’d made her suffer through lessons in St. Petersburg, so this was only the appropriate punishment.

They slid into position for a waltz, Dmitry’s hold on her stiff and awkward. He kept both their feet firmly on the floor, his longer strides curbed in deference to her shorter legs. He only stepped on her twice which, Anya noted, was a vast improvement from the few disastrous lessons before Vlad had taken over her training in dance. Even so, she was doing most of the leading, her hand against his shoulder enough to set them on the right tempo. Dmitry, for once, didn’t seem bothered by her taking the initiative, seemingly relieved to have competent direction. The end of the song earned him a full smile and a deep curtsy. “Thank you, Dmitry,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she rose. Dmitry’s expression was hidden behind his mask, and before he could reply, one of the deja-vu-inducing royals tapped Anya on the shoulder.

“Would the mademoiselle care to dance?”

“Yes, certainly,” she agreed, and they were off, in a series of spins and twirls that had her almost giggling. She’d always loved dancing, and parties, and in this moment she could feel the woman she had been before waking up in that hospital folding into the same woman that Anya was, memories swirling of dances and spins and lifts and the time her brother had danced so charmingly before tripping, and the blood hadn’t stopped flowing until the monk -

The music had ended, so when she stumbled back and pressed a hand to her head it didn’t seem quite so out of place. Her brother had been so delicate, but so full of life, and she _ached_ with the absence of her family. Her back was pressed against one of the walls, cool against her bare shoulders as she drew in a shuddering breath.

Now was not the time to lose herself in memories, not with her future so close at hand. She’d just have to find Vlad or Dmitry, and everything would be fine. She straightened up and started walking across the floor as the music began again.

One of the men caught her hand, spun her into place, and in a moment they were waltzing. His hold was firm enough that Anya’s feet slotted into the familiar pattern before she glanced up and saw a black domino mask that covered the better part of his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to reclaim her hand with a winning smile, “I’m looking for my friend.” His hand tightened on hers.

“Always in a hurry,” he said, voice low and half-amused, and Anya stumbled. His arms were like iron as he pulled her through the spin, unnoticeable to the others waltzing around them, and another - longer - glance let her recognize the self-deprecating smile, the wry humor in his eyes.

“Gleb,” she said, her voice quiet, keeping the conversation between the two of them.

“I wasn’t expecting to meet a street sweeper in a club of deposed Russian royalty,” he said conversationally, and Anya flinched. “Paris is no place for a good and _loyal_ Russian.”

Anya’s jaw tightened and she met his gaze. “And yet we are _both_ in Paris.”

“I was sent here, Anya.” His stride lengthened slightly as they spun, the motion - or perhaps simply his irritation - making him hold her tighter. “I think you know why.”

“I saw you the night we jumped from the train,” she said, ignoring his statement. She was standing tall in his arms, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her trip again. Gleb wasn’t as tall or gangly as Dmitry, and he danced with the smooth motions of someone who had been taught more than just the steps, but how to actually dance. She was still meeting his gaze evenly, trusting, at least, that he wouldn’t let her fall. “You didn’t draw a weapon.”

There was a hitch in the evenness of his steps, and she knew his inability to end the threat she posed bothered him. “And risk you falling?” He laughed, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “My orders were to bring the false Anastasia _back_ .” _To be punished_ , hung between them.

“And the real Anastasia?” she demanded. Gleb gritted his teeth and pulled her closer as they set off on a dizzying set of spins, his eyes not meeting hers as he focused on their motion. Anya followed them with the steps of an expert, watching his face closely. She had no obligation to guide their dance, and so she let him set the pace and simply waited for a response.

When they slowed again, he ignored the question, instead smiling tensely at her. “You look beautiful, Anya.” She didn’t miss his slight emphasis on her name, but she smiled back. The Russian court had always used words as weapons.

“I’ve never seen you out of uniform,” she replied noncommittally. Privately, she had to admit it was a shock. The three-piece suit flattered him, but between that and the mask, it was no real surprise she hadn’t seen him before he’d caught her. She’d always seen the uniform, she realized, and not really the man wearing it. “How did you talk your way in?”

He laughed, short and sharp, spinning her within the circle of his right arm. “Royalty is not hard to fool.”

She arched an eyebrow and realized the motion was lost behind her mask. “I recognized you.”

“You are not like them,” he said fiercely, clutching her closer to his body. Anya gasped, but she couldn’t break away from the way his eyes burned into hers, his words sharp. “You _worked_ for what you have. You didn’t steal it from the people - people like _us_ , Anya.”

She felt like there was no air. They’d stopped dancing, and the black mask made his eyes seem brighter as they stared into hers, the weight of his convictions settling around him like a cloak, almost sweeping her into it. What did she want in Paris? The chance to join the fat, lazy royals around them, royals who lived in the past as they waited for death to claim them? She was a worker, a doer, and the idea of becoming a decoration of Parisian society chafed at her. Gleb’s voice was the only thing keeping her from drowning as he continued, “You don’t belong here, Anya.”

What did he want from her? Agreement? She could hardly give up and go home now.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, voice shaky, and then she drew herself up again and said, firmly, “I can’t go back.”

“No, he agreed quietly. The dance was over but he was still holding her too close, and his hands moved up to cradle her face. “But still ... there’s other options, Anya.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured helplessly. His thumb stroked across her jaw lightly, and she shuddered, everything too immediate to handle.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his eyes incomprehensible. He seemed almost shocked by his actions, but his hand didn’t stop, stroking along her jawline gently, as though he couldn’t bear to let go. “You have more options than you think. To throw it all away on a gamble, that you might be the woman your con men taught you to be -”

“To be who I am, Gleb.” Her voice was steady only with effort. “I am the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I remember it.” Parts of it, anyway, parts that might have been imagined, but Gleb didn’t need to hear her say that.

“You _think_ you remember,” he corrected, and her eyes drifted shut. It truly was her worst fear, that she had imagined all of this at Vlad and Dmitry’s manipulation. She gripped Gleb’s hand and found she didn’t have the strength to pull it away from her face. “Your conmen taught you to remember,” he continued, soothingly, still stroking her cheek. “I can’t go to back to Leningrad without you, one way or another.”

Her eyes flew open. “That is not my problem.” She yanked his hand away from her cheek, his other hand falling to her shoulder as she snapped, “I can’t go back to Leningrad.”

“You can’t.” He sighed squeezed her hand, still holding his. “I don’t want to go back to Leningrad with you.” His voice was soft, confessional, and Anya froze.

“You -” She started, stopped, narrowed her eyes as Gleb’s smile turned self-loathing. “You love Russia.”

“I do,” he said simply. His hands fell away from her entirely, the one she’d held loosely pulling from her grasp. Her skin felt too cold in their wake. “I wasn’t lying. You have other options, Anya.”

For a brief moment, Anya could see the future he proposed. The threat of the false Grand Duchess neutralized, because she left the country with the policeman come to kill her. She’d never have to face the disappointment of rejection from her maybe-grandmother, and he’d never have to admit he’d failed. They’d be ghosts together, vanishing from the world - her whole past a question that would never have an answer, one she’d worry over for the rest of her life.

“Anya!” Dmitry’s voice cut through the moment, and the future she’d envisioned shattered like a mirror as her eyes turned to Dmitry. “Vlad’s looking for you,” he continued blithely, “He said the Dowager never comes here, but the ballet next week -” And finally, his eyes flickered between her and Gleb, who was less the menacing officer and more the smiling gentleman now, and Dmitry hesitated. “Who’s this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Anya said firmly. “Let’s go.”

Dmitry started to lead the way, but Gleb’s hand caught her wrist, and unlike the brush on the train he managed to stop her in her tracks.

“Let go of me,” she said, the full weight of her royalty in her voice. Gleb’s hand fell away and she could almost envision his expression. She was making her choice now, and his almost-offer wasn’t enough to sway her. Her past demanded answers, and she linked her arm with Dmitry’s and managed not to look behind her as she left Gleb amongst the Russian royalty he despised.

“There’s a ballet next Monday,” Dmitry was explaining, “and Vlad told me that Lily and the Dowager Empress will both be there. This is our best shot, Anya, so you’ll have to be ready -”

“I will be,” she assured him, trying not to sound preoccupied. She could almost feel Gleb’s eyes burning into her back as they left, and she prayed he hadn’t heard too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay with me,” she begged. “I’m frightened.”
> 
> Anya had gone through this exact thing in snowbanks and under bridges and in cheap hotels across Russia, but somehow, so close to finding the truth, it hit her harder. Dmitry nodded slowly and began to stroke her back in even, comforting motions; he comforted like he danced, like he knew the motions but not how to use them. Anya’s tears had subsided slightly, though, and she sniffled. “Is that better?” he asked gently.
> 
> “Who do you think I am, Dmitry?” she demanded, her voice low and shaky.

The world was dark. Anya was in bed, looking up, and _they_ had circled the bed like she was the one sick, the one dying. Their crisp white uniforms and beautiful jeweled gowns were wrong, in some subtle way; the clothing fit the bodies like shrouds.

 _They_ had never had shrouds, or graves, or funerals.

“Who are you?” she asked, and her voice sounded echoey in the dark. “Every night you come -”

The man in the uniform smiled and knelt by her bed, and Anya fell silent. _Papa,_ her heart whispered. If papa was smiling, then it would be fine; he had been the one to bring candles to ward off the dark and to comfort her when she cried.

 _And we will,_ he said gently, reaching out to stroke her hair back from her face, _until you remember us._

Anya didn’t have memories, she knew. She had the half-remembered dreams that faded away when she woke up, and these were the only moments she thought she might, maybe, know who she was. Her father smiled and stood, taking a step back and letting her mother - in her formal gown - step closer.

 _Have you said your prayers_ ? she asked curtly. _God is everything._ Mama, Anya remembered, had always been deeply religious. And although she hadn’t remembered to pray - she almost never did, now - she nodded dutifully. Her mother smiled beatifically and leaned down to press a kiss to Anya’s forehead, murmuring, _Sleep well, with this mother’s kiss._

And Anya must have drifted off, because she was woken up by her brother crawling into bed with her. Mama and papa were long gone, asleep by now, and her brother smiled mischievously at her. _Can I tell you a secret? I’m going to die soon._ Anya tried to push upright, but the blankets were ropes holding her back as her brother cocked his head to the side. _We all are. Do you have a secret?_

“I don’t know who I am,” she admitted, her voice low. Her brother didn’t deserve to hear her trauma, but Anya didn’t have enough memories to have more secrets.

 _That’s silly,_ he said, matter-of-factly, and the false seriousness of his voice made her heart ache. He held her hand and looked into her eyes - and so odd, to see those rare blue eyes in another face! _Everyone knows who they are._

 _Anya,_ the void insisted, and she twisted. The name wasn’t right; ‘Anya’ had been handed to her with a hat and coat and a crust of bread and a muttered ‘good luck’ when she left the hospital, her real name buried someone, sewn behind her heart like the diamond that had protected it. She wasn’t in bed anymore; she was kneeling in that Russian snow, holding her head and trying to see past the voices. The snow around her was bloodstained, a road and a wood she had never seen but the nurses had described to her.

 _Anya_ , a new voice said, and she looked up to meet Gleb’s eyes. His voice melded with the other ghosts, but he was the only one who called, not for the woman who’d been beaten and left in the snow, but for the woman who’d risen in her place.

Anastasia, Vlad had told her, meant ‘resurrection’.

The other ghosts crowded in, and Gleb was a shadow among their bright finery. Anya shook her head, a shudder going through her body - _shaking, again_ , Gleb seemed to say, and he reached out to her even as his smile turned cruel. She started running without a thought, desperate to get away from Gleb - from it all, from the voices and the demands. The man in the uniform - her father - reached for her, to gather her close and comfort her, and she stretched out her arms. The pop of gunfire made her scream, and there was blood staining her father’s white, white coat in a widening circle - there was only one person here who had ever carried a gun, she knew, only one person who would want to shoot a Romanov -  and no matter how much she ran and _didn’t_ look behind her, the bloodstained coat was always just a few steps further. “ _Papa!_ ” she cried, and she fell out of her bed, her real bed, and the sobs choked her into silence as she huddled back.

“Anya!” Dmitry burst in, ready to fight whatever it was, and seemed almost confused to see Anya on the floor, her back pressed to the bedframe.

“The voices keep coming back,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice wet. Dmitry knelt beside her, tactfully ignoring the quiet noises of pain that slipped through her sobs.

“That’s all they are - _voices_.” He reached out to touch her arm and she flinched back. “You’re having a nightmare, Anya.”

Anya pushed herself into a sitting position, tears still filling her eyes, and grabbed Dmitry’s arm. He obligingly moved closer, looking at her as though he’d never seen her fully before. _I’m not as strong as you think I am,_ she’d said to him that night in Petersburg. It wasn’t her fault if he hadn’t listened. But for now, she desperately needed another warm human to chase away the ghosts that still lingered behind her eyelids.

“Stay with me,” she begged. “I’m frightened.”

Anya had gone through this exact thing in snowbanks and under bridges and in cheap hotels across Russia, but somehow, so close to finding the truth, it hit her harder. Dmitry nodded slowly and began to stroke her back in even, comforting motions; he comforted like he danced, like he knew the motions but not how to use them. Anya’s tears had subsided slightly, though, and she sniffled. “Is that better?” he asked gently.

“Who do you think I am, Dmitry?” she demanded, her voice low and shaky. Dmitry glanced at her and sighed.

“If I was the Dowager Empress,” he began, “I would want you to be Anastasia.” She could tell he wouldn’t answer: the face he wore was the one he used to tell stories. But it was late and Anya was distraught and just talking made the ghosts feel less substantial. Maybe she didn't need the truth tonight.

“I would want her to be a beautiful, strong, intelligent, young woman,” he confirmed, and Anya sniffled a little.

“Is that what you think I am?”

“It’s what you’ve become,” Dmitry assured her, and Anya wondered distantly if Gleb had been lying when he’d said the same about her when she’d been called in for questioning. The contrast almost hurt; her friend should’ve been the one who was free with compliments, but instead it was the officer who should, by rights, have killed her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and Dmitry muttered ‘you’re welcome’ before Anya raised her voice to add, “I was wondering if you were ever going to pay me a compliment.” She waited a moment but Dmitry didn’t seem likely to apologize. “Do you really think I might be - _her?_ ”

He’d dodged the question before, but in the middle of the night with Anya’s tears steadily soaking his sleeve, Dmitry seemed to consider. “I want to believe,” he said thoughtfully, “that you are the little girl I saw once, many years ago.”

She’d expected him to demurr or push her away, and the response made her pause. “I don’t understand.”

“When I was ten, in June, a parade came through Petersburg,” Dmitry said, his hand stilling on her back. “It still crosses my mind, every now and then.” Anya nodded and he continued, “The Grand Duchess Anastasia was in the parade. Her horse was grey, and she sat so straight it was like a broomstick was taped to her back -” Anya laughed wetly; Vlad had threatened to tape a broomstick to her back to fix the posture street sweeping had left her with. “- but it was so _natural_ to her. She was so confidently royal.” Anya straightened up and Dmitry obligingly let go of her, although he stayed close as he continued. “I couldn’t help it - I chased the parade, shouting ‘Anastasia’ over and over. I pushed through the guards and she finally looked down and saw me, and then she _smiled_.” He chuckled. “The parade must’ve kept going, because next thing I knew I was back in the crowd. I will never forget her face, though.” He reached over to touch her jaw lightly. “There’s a certain resemblance here.”

“I feel like I was there, hearing your story,” Anya said, and Dmitry laughed, leaning away from her.

“Maybe you were! Make it part of your story - a parade in Petersburg -”

“- in June -

“ - it was hot,” he added, “and cloudless -”

“- and a boy in the crowd caught my eye,” she added, and he nodded encouragingly. “He was thin -” She giggled. “- and not too clean -”

“Anya!” he protested, and they both laughed.

“- he pushed through the guards and shouted to me, running after the parade. And I wasn’t _supposed_ to react to the crowds, but,” she stood up and turned to face Dmitry, “I smiled to him. And then -” The image hit her like lightning, the thinner, younger version of the man before her bowing awkwardly and the phantom smile almost hurt her cheeks as she stumbled back. “- he bowed to me.”

She couldn’t have scared him more if she’d slapped him. He leaned back so quickly it was like she had shoved him, his eyes like saucers. “I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, as the real and remembered Dmitry’s swam together. “I _remember._ ”

He looked at her in fear and wonderment and she remembered what it felt like to be looked at that way all the time. As the princess, the Romanov she had always been.

“You didn’t need me to answer your question,” Dmitry said, voice low, and then he fell from the bed to kneel before her, “your highness.”

“Dmitry - I - nothing has changed,” she protested, reaching for him, but he stood without her help. “I’m still me.”

“Everything changed,” he replied simply. “You _are_ her. No guesses, no fakes, no con. You’re Anastasia and - you go to the Dowager Empress tonight and she _can’t_ refuse to see you.”

“You still thought I was fake?” she asked, although she knew the answer.

“I’d hoped you weren’t. I’d guessed.” Dmitry shook his head. “I thought it would take the Empress to confirm it.”

“But - now we know.” Anya wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the knowledge to her chest. She knew who she was. “Thank you, Dmitry.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said shortly, and then took a step back. There was something in his eyes, like his almost-friend had turned into a mythical creature. A beautiful one, perhaps, but one that could not share the same space as he did. “Be ready for the ballet tomorrow night,” he said, like she needed reminding. “I - goodnight, your highness.”

Anya nodded slowly, unsure why he was acting so formal. “Goodnight, Dmitry.”

He fled from the room and she waited a few heartbeats before climbing back into bed. The knowledge of her identity still burned behind her ribs and she smiled, feeling like she was wearing armor. _I know who I am_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing Anya was not only his duty but his pleasure, a fulfillment of his purpose here. But the thought of her blood splattering the ground to the sounds of Swan Lake was … distasteful. Yes, that was it. He didn’t want to ruin the show, but that was foolish.  
> He steadied the gun against his arm and aimed carefully.

Anya had been preparing for this evening for so long now that, even though she knew she’d meet her possible - no, her _real_ grandmother tonight, it didn’t feel real. The gown she had on was beautiful, bluer than her eyes and draped in pears that served only to make her feel more out of place.

“I’m frightened,” she admitted to Vlad, while he helped her fix her hair.

“It’s only natural,” he assured her. “Why, when I first talked my way into court - I was so nervous I was nearly sick, right there in front of the Empress!” He grinned and Anya smiled up at him as he tapped her nose lightly. “And I didn’t have the benefit of being genuine royalty, Anya. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Vlad.”

“Ah, don’t thank me.” He waved a hand. “I’m not wholly selfless. My Lily and I both want to see you back where you belong.”

“ _Your_ Lily?” Anya asked, and Vlad blushed. “Vlad! I can’t believe you - all your talk, and you’re in love with her!”

“I always was,” he agreed, a new lightness in his eyes. Anya smiled and held up a hand.

“Help me up? I don’t know how women move in dresses like this.”

“Very carefully, I’ve been told,” Vlad said easily, offering his arm. Anya managed to get standing, and he laughed. “You won’t have to stand up too much, my dear.”

“Good, because my feet already hurt.” She bumped her shoulder against Vlad’s as they left. “Tell me again about _your_ Lily?”

And he was off, talking animatedly the whole car ride about how beautiful and vivacious his Lily was, how she would take to Anya instantly. Interspersed were reassurances about how there was nothing to be afraid of, that she would do fine. She didn’t have time to panic until she was standing alone at the coat check.

She was Anastasia. She was sure of that now. But to convince the dowager empress would take more than that, and now she had two hours to do nothing but sit with her anxiety. Perhaps Dmitry would be kind enough to distract her with his usual inane chatter; Dmitry’s hatred of royalty extended into all things, including the extravagance of masquerades and operas and ballets. She found him down on one knee, tying his shoe, and waited patiently until he looked up.

Dmitry looked a little bit like she’d kicked him in the teeth, his eyes wide as he slowly rose and offered her his arm. Anya smiled, then reached up to fix his tie before taking his arm.

“Nervous?” he asked quietly, and she laughed.

“You have _no idea_.”

“Don’t worry! You’ll only have two hours to consider it.”

“ _Dmitry!_ ”

==

Gleb watched Anya vanish into the box on the con man’s arm, and gritted his teeth. The dowager empress was across the theater from them, and it would be _simpler_ if he simply disposed of the dowager empress and left them with no way to prove Anya’s assumed identity. But his orders didn’t include the killing of an old woman who’d left Russia two decades ago, who’d never had any political power, and who _wasn’t the direct threat_.

He stood in the lobby for a while longer, the eerie quietness of a theater lobby during the show making his skin crawl. The music echoed through the wall, reaching him, and he waited just long enough that the con men and Anya would be lulled by it before moving towards the box. The swell of _Swan Lake_ was shocking, too beautiful for words and so hauntingly Russian it hurt. Gleb paused a moment to savor it; from here, he could see into the box where Anya sat anxiously. Her hands fiddled with something in her lap, and occasionally she took her companion’s opera glasses. Rather than look at the stage, she peered across the way at the Dowager Empress. The boy next to her kept sneaking frightened glances at Anya as though he was having second thoughts about this con. _Too late for that,_ Gleb though bitterly, pulling his pistol from where it had been secured.  On stage, the dance had reached its climax, and the music almost drowned out thought. Gleb had come here to find out if Anya was innocent, but it wasn’t that simple anymore. She was innocent in that she had no great desire to hurt the regime; she was guilty in that she would do so if he didn’t stop her. Could he execute someone for what they would unintentionally do? Could he look into those blue eyes and shoot her knowing he would have to live with the consequences?

Had his father been right to be conflicted all along?

He braced the gun on his other arm, knowing he was hidden in the shadows, and aimed it for the back of her neck, as painless as it could be. Anya had made herself a direct threat to Russia; Gleb’s commitment to Russia was absolute. Killing Anya was not only his duty but his pleasure, a fulfillment of his purpose here. But the thought of her blood splattering the ground to the sounds of _Swan Lake_ was … distasteful. Yes, that was it. He didn’t want to ruin the show, but that was foolish. He steadied the gun against his arm and aimed carefully -

And jolted back as applause rang out, louder than any gunshot. The show was over, the moment gone as ushers swept up the aisles and hallways. Gleb tucked the pistol back into it’s hidden holster and began to walk away. Each time he left Anya it felt more and more painful - and he was running out of chances.

Next time, he would have to shoot.

==

Anya took a deep breath and walked, posture as royal as she could manage as she approached the group. Lily glanced up from where she and Vlad were speaking quietly and her face was one of shock, of fear, and most of all, of respect and love. She dropped to her knee.

“Your _highness_.”

That was more frightening than anything else. “You mustn’t,” Anya protested, kneeling in front of her and bringing her to her feet. The men were whispering together in the background but all Anya could see was the recognition in Lily’s eyes, the growing faith there.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” the countess warned her, taking her arm gently. And then they were in the box and Anya was only feet away from the woman she’d crossed the continent to see. _Nana,_ her heart whispered, and Anya bit her lip.

“You have a visitor, your majesty.”

“I don’t have any call for visitors, Lily,” the woman corrected sternly, and Anya’s heart wilted.

“I think you do,” Lily said gently. “A certain young woman -”

“No more, I said!” The dowager empress faced Lily and the anger in her profile made Anya ache. She wanted to run to her, to comfort her, but it wasn’t her place, might never have been. Maybe the memories _were_ all Dmitry and Vlad’s construction; the perfect tool to wound the dowager empress again. “I’ve been hurt too many times,” the dowager empress continued.

“I don’t think this one will hurt you,” Lily protested, and the dowager empress didn’t even glance over her shoulder, addressing her words to Lily but pitching them perfectly to carry to where Anya stood, wrapped in her own fear and uncertainty.

“Tell this imposter I know her kind too well.” The dowager empress laughed bitterly. “She wants money and to break an old woman’s heart.”

Anya didn’t to be humiliated further, she simply turned on her heel and left.

“How did it go?” Dmitry asked, and Anya laughed. It sounded hollow.

“She wouldn’t even look at me. She called me an imposter and said I wanted money.”

“I’ll tell her the truth!” he snapped, moving towards the door, and Anya might not have been able to comfort the dowager empress but she could certainly keep her from being hurt more.

“That I was a pawn in a scheme of yours? That you made me think I might be someone I never was and never could be?” She put a hand on his chest and shoved him backwards, pushing him away from the old woman who he’d already done so much to hurt. “I was cold, and hungry, and desperate when I met you, Dmitry, but I _wasn’t_ dishonest.” She glared up at him. “And I hate you for that.”

She turned and ran, blindly, to the cab outside, unsure where she was planning to go, but knowing she couldn't stay another night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Duchess Anastasia is alive.
> 
> The Grand Duchess Anastasia has been found at last.
> 
> The Grand Duchess Anastasia has risen again.

 

Anya was packing to leave, words spilling from her in French and Russian and every language she’d been tutored in. She’d been taken in and she was _angry_ about it, and she turned to shout at Dmitry and maybe hit him with a book and was face to face with the Dowager Empress.

Anya dropped into a deep curtsy, apologies on her lips, but the woman didn’t seem bothered.

“I think history demands we play this _game_ to the end.” The old woman’s face was stern, almost frightening, and Anya froze, managing only to point to the bench.

“Please be seated,” she tried, and the dowager empress laughed.

“There’s no need; I shall be brief.” She swept into the room like a force of nature and fixed Anya with a glare. “Who are you?”

“I believe,” Anya said, falling back on what Vlad had taught her, “I am the youngest daughter of -”

“Spare me my family history,” the dowager empress snapped. “It’s in every bookstore along the Seine. Anyone can _read_ it.” She stood so tall, so proud, and it made Anya’s heart hurt. Here was a woman who was, somehow, even more alone than Anya herself, who had already given up the hope that had sustained Anya for the past decade.

“I didn’t think you’d be so cruel,” she said without thinking.

The dowager empress didn’t smile. “I’m old, and impatient. Kindness has become a luxury.”

“My nana was the most loving woman imaginable,” Anya said, strongly. She didn’t remember much, but the woman’s presence was bringing back bits and pieces, little moments. She didn’t remember her nana being so cold and distant, except with people outside the family. The dowager empress’s eyes narrowed.

“That was before they _murdered_ everyone she loved.”

Anya shook her head, tried to recall a moment that the woman could confirm, anything that would be like the parade Dmitry had attended. “Her bosom smelled like oranges when she hugged me.”

“It’s a common enough scent.” Anya looked down and missed that the old woman’s gaze was suddenly razor sharp.

“Not hers! It came from Sicily -” Caught up in the moment, Anya moved, fell onto the sofa before the dowager empress and smiled up at her. “- made especially for her, in a box of polished olivewood.”

The dowager empress stared at her for a long moment before snapping, “How dare you sit without my permission!” Anya scrambled to her feet, apologies on her lips again, and after a moment, the woman sighed heavily. “Alright, sit you have my permission. I shall sit too.” She sat with a grace Anya wished she possessed, seemingly unaffected by the young woman next to her. “Who was my favorite lady in waiting?

“You didn’t have one,” Anya said softly. She didn’t know quite where the answers were coming from, but she knew they were correct. “You kept dismissing them.”

The dowager empress nodded thoughtfully. “It was a trick question. You’re clever, I’ll grant you that.” She leaned towards Anya, examining her closely. “I’m trying to see the resemblance,” she explained shortly. “I don’t trust my eyes.” After another long, silent moment, she made a noncommittal noise. “Interesting.”

“You should wear spectacles,” Anya said, without thinking, and then put a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry!”

“I admit there is some similarity,” the woman said, and it was more than Anya had thought to hope for, after the cold welcome earlier.

“Thank you.”

“I said _some_ ,” the dowager empress corrected her sharply. “Name the three -”

“Why don’t you want me to be her?” Anya had been questioned in Russia, had been questioned in Paris, had been put through her paces like a show pony and she was _tired_. There was no amount of questions that would prove who she was, not when the answers came from Vlad and not from her memories.

“I have found solace in my bitterness,” the old woman said shortly, and Anya knew it was too honest. “It drips steadily like a black poison; it doesn’t disappoint me.” She fixed Anya with an icy glare. “You ‘Anastasia’s always do.”

“If you give me a chance,” Anya protested, “maybe I won’t.”

The dowager empress leaned towards her and said, matter of factly: “I don’t believe Anastasia exists.”

“You don’t _want_ to believe it,” Anya said hollowly, leaning back. So Anya knew who she was; what did it matter? The dowager empress had suffered so much more than she had, and Anya couldn’t blame her for giving up hope. The loss of her family - and that was what her nightmares must be - had only sunk in to hurt Ayna recently, and the dowager empress - her nana - had been living with it for a decade, now.

“What was your mother’s full title as empress of all Russia?” the dowager empress demanded, and Anya’s teeth clenched as her eyes filled with tears. She suspected the old woman next to her knew that no amount of questioning could ever prove her identity, but the questions were comforting. She couldn’t blame her, even as the tears clouded her vision.

“Aren’t we beyond this?”

“Alexandra Feodorovna -

“She was mama to me!” Anya fell forward, her face buried in her hands as tears sprang to her eyes. The woman from her nightmares would never be Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova to her, any more than the woman before her could be Maria Feodorovna, or anything but nana. Anya felt the tears begin to fall into her opera gloves. “She was mama to _all_ of us.”

“You all cry at some point; do you rehearse?” The dowager asked, the forced distance twisting the knife in Anya’s heart. “Tears will get you nowhere.”

If it would stop their pain, Anya realized, she would walk away. She’d give up her future and her certainty of the past to make her nana feel better. But leaving - especially now - would be a new wound for her. She was hurt, though, and she wasn’t able to forget that - her nana had always been stern, but this felt like a twist of the knife in her chest.

“Why did you come here?” she asked, around the tears.

“Your young man told me _you_ weren’t part of his scheme,” the dowager empress said, and Anya looked up from her damp opera gloves and tried to be brave, like she’d been taught.

“He’s right. I wasn’t.”

“He believes you very well might be my granddaughter,” the dowager empress said, fixing Anya with a searching gaze. “He says you’ve come to believe it yourself.”

“I believe it, with all my heart.” _Believe it_ , again, the same way she’d doubted, the way Gleb had accused her of falling prey to a trap. And perhaps - perhaps Dmitry had been lying, all along. Now, in the light of day, it was hard to imagine why Dmitry _wouldn’t_ lie about the parade - it would be all too easy to agree to whatever she imagined, to prepare her to see the dowager empress  by putting the final pin in their deception. Anya took a deep breath. “But I can’t be her unless you recognize me.”

“You can’t be anyone unless you first recognize yourself.” The dowager empress’s voice was sharp and Anya flinched back like a reprimanded child.

“I know.”

Silence.

“If you’re not Anastasia,” the dowager empress began, “you have killed me as surely as they killed my family in that cellar in Yekaterinburg. Do you know what it means to lose _everything_ , young woman?” She sounded as broken as Anya felt, and Anya wanted to gather her in her arms and comfort her, no matter the truth of her identity. “My son, his children, everything I loved and held dear! All lost and gone in one terrible moment, and for _what_? The good of Russia!” Anya reached out to comfort her and she took a breath, fixed Anya with that piercing stare. “I’ll ask you one last time, young woman, be very careful what you answer. Who are you?”

Anya withdrew her hand slowly. “I don’t know anymore,” Anya admitted, her voice breaking. Gleb, Dmitry, Vlad, now the x dowager empress - they all wanted her to be someone, the Duchess she might have been or the historyless woman she was now, but Anya knew it wasn’t that simple. She gestured to the woman before her, unsure how to convey that and trying to hold back the tears.  “Who are you?”

And the dowager empress crumpled, her voice hollow as she admitted, “An old woman, who remembers _everything_ the way it should have been and _nothing_ the way it was. I am unreliable; I am a historian of the heart.” The mask fell away at last, and Anya was sitting with her nana, the woman who’d always cared for her. “And I want this fearful journey to be over!”

The raw emotion on her face was what did it; Anastasia had seen that look once before, when her nana had left her for Paris, walked away and left her in her father’s arms with only a music box to sing her to sleep. She’d been barely more than a child, but the sense of abandonment had been keen. And - _perhaps her nana remembered too._

“Do you remember the last time you saw Anastasia?” she asked hurriedly, kneeling before her grandmother.

“I didn’t _know_ it was the last time!” Her grandmother’s hands wrung together, and Anya - yes, she remembered that! “We never do, we never know which goodbye is the last.”

“You were leaving for Paris,” she said evenly, and her grandmother’s eyes widened. “You never came back. You gave her a music box -” She darted to her half-packed suitcase and pulled out the precious treasure with shaking hands, returning to her grandmother with a cautious optimism. “- I believe this was it.”

The emotion on her grandmother’s face was indescribable as Anya sat next to her, turning the key and opening the box with the slight twist that only she and the woman beside her knew. A broken sob came from the dowager empress, but Anya’s eyes were on the small couple dancing in the music box.

“ _Dancing bears_ ,” she began softly, “ _painted wings - things I almost remember_ -”

“ _And a song_ ,” her nana sang quietly, “ _someone sings_ -”

“ _Once upon a december_ ,” they finished, together, and fell into each other’s arms, tears flowing freely now.

“I said I’d come visit you in Paris!” And that had been what had kept her going for the past decade, when things were cold and she was tired; together in Paris at last! “And we’d go to the ballet together, and walk on grandpapa’s bridge -”

“You never knew him,” nana said, and it was with the greatest regret. “I loved him very much.”

Anya grasped her arm, filled with sudden surety. “We’ll walk the bridge together, for all of them, nana.” They had each other; the tragedy of the past would never vanish, but they could heal from it.

Nana was in tears. “What took you so long?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Anya reached out to brush away her grandmother’s tears, but her own vision was too blurry to be much use. “I’m here with you.”

“You’ve come too late,” she protested, and Anya held her more firmly, like she had wanted to in the opera box.

“It’s never too late to come home, nana.”

They hugged, so tight it was almost painful, and nana whispered her name against her hair, like a prayer. And, almost drowing out rational thought, there was the scent of orange blossoms to welcome Anastasia home.

==

Gleb had caught the whispers on the streets, the same whispers he’d caught in Leningrad:

The Grand Duchess Anastasia is alive.

The Grand Duchess Anastasia has been found at last.

The Grand Duchess Anastasia has risen again.

He fitted the bullets into his pistol with a quiet despair. It had taken three days for the former-empress to arrange a press conference; plenty of time for Gleb to fake the press credentials that would get him in. Plenty of time to harden his heart. He had one last chance to try and salvage the situation, if he could corner her; if he couldn’t, he would put a bullet in her skill the way he did with _every_ person who wore the mantle of royalty, the way his father had before him.

It was a pity that Anya had gotten caught up in this. Gleb didn’t know if she was Anastasia, but he didn’t care. His commanding officer’s words were making sense, at long last: Anastasia wasn’t a person. Anastasia was a counter-revolutionary ideal who had to be put down before she could bring Russia down around herself.

It was just a shame, he admitted in some small part of his mind, that it had to be _her_.

==

Anya had felt a little sick to her stomach all morning. Saying she was going to be the grand duchess was fine, but faced with the looming prospect of it being real, she was terrified. Her nana was the bright spot in it all - and Anya couldn’t disappoint her, not after so many years of suffering - but even that wasn’t enough to make her _want_ to be royalty. She’d thought for so long that she wanted to be the Grand Duchess; she was realizing all she’d ever wanted was to be Anastasia, with a family who loved her. And she was realizing that she was still Anya, even as she teased the count and held her grandmother’s arm, even in the gown that felt too big for her. Finding out she was royalty couldn’t quite erase a decade of sleeping on the streets.

Lily and Vlad cleared out too quickly, and nana laughed, taking Anya’s hand as though she would vanish. She and Anya were constantly touching, each afraid to lose the other. “Get used to people agreeing with _everything_ you say,” her grandmother warned, and Anya laughed in disbelief.

“That isn’t _right_.”

“Of course it isn’t,” her grandmother replied with a smile. “Now. Where’s your young man?”

Anya glanced away. “He’s _not_ my young man, nana.” Dmitry had been nowhere to be found since she’d shoved him away; he’d brought her grandmother to her and then, for all intents and purposes, vanished into the air.

“If it’s not plain to you that he _loves_ you -” Nana began, and it was all too much.

“He’s _not_ my young man!” Anya burst out, and her grandmother paused.

“When he refused my reward for finding you, I thought to myself, Anastasia has found herself another kind of prince: one of character, not birth.”

Anya met her grandmother’s eyes, furrowed her brow. Nana looked entirely serious, which mean Dmitry must’ve really sold his act - or he had been honest.

“Dmitry refused the reward?”

“You are Anastasia. He said that was his reward.”

The world was crashing down around her ears. Anya had assumed Dmitry would vanish if the dowager empress accepted her - but she hadn’t thought he’d leave the reward. Dmitry was a con man through and through, and she couldn’t understand unless -

He loved her.

“You have made this the happiest day of my life, Anastasia,” her grandmother said gently, taking her hands again. “Make sure it will be yours as well, Anya.” Her name in her grandmother’s voice rocked Anya to the core. She’d always told people that Anya wasn’t her real name, couldn’t be her real name - but in so many ways, it had come to encompass all she was. Anya and Anastasia had always coexisted before; just because she knew she was Anastasia didn't mean Anya would cease to exist. Anastasia would want to be a royal, with her family - but what did Anya want, after so long, after so much? Nana, not privy to the tumult that was Anya’s mind, leaned in to kiss her forehead. “We will always have each other, no matter what you decide. What’s one more little secret between us?”

She left with Lily, who would make sure she was ready for the press, and Anya felt faint.

Dmitry loved her.

Dmitry _thought_ he loved her.

Dmitry had been in love with Anastasia since he was ten; of course he would find his decency when his childhood idol reappeared. But Dmitry had never been in love with Anya - they’d been friends, perhaps, of a passing and uncertain nature. He’d abandoned the reward; that made Anya uneasy, as though she owed him something. She squared her shoulders. She’d find him, and explain the situation - that she was thankful, that she didn’t love him, and that he should use the reward to begin the life he deserved, since they’d spent all their money getting to Paris. She nodded, turned to leave, and came up short.

Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov stepped forward, the key to the only exit vanishing into his pocket.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am -" She stood proud, her shoulders squared, and a step brought her so close he couldn't possibly miss, even if he tried. "- the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.”

Anya looked so beautiful and so _royal_ it made Gleb ache. She had been pacing, her dress swaying with every step, and he’d waited until her back was turned to turn to step in and lock the door behind him. He tucked the key into his pocket just as she turned to face him and he watched as the bright, thoughtful look in her face drained away. She looked pale and nervous, now, but that was alright.

Deputy Commissioner Vaganov was used to fear.

“Gleb,” she whispered, and he felt his heart jolt as he stepped towards her.

“Always in a hurry,” he said conversationally, as though they were friends and not heirs to a fight that had to end in blood, “and I always let you go - but not this time.” He straightened up and tugged his suit jacket into place, tried for a tense smile. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“My home is here now,” Anya informed him, her posture regal, and she moved towards the door. She would find it locked, but Gleb caught her arm without thinking and pulled her back, catching the other arm and forcing her to face him. The Romanov eyes, framed by a tiara and gown and set in the face he knew so well, sent ice down his spine.

“Stop playing this _game_ , Anya,” he begged, barely above a whisper.

“We both know it’s not a game, Gleb.” Her voice wavered and she sounded broken, as though she might be having second thoughts. She pushed away from him, but he felt his heart flutter in his chest; perhaps this could end without bloodshed. Perhaps ...

“I told you last time we met,” he started, watching her closely, “Paris is no place for a good and _loyal_ Russian.”

If she was loyal, if she was willing to go back on all this - perhaps she wouldn’t be punished, perhaps not severely. In Leningrad, perhaps they’d find the Grand Duchess more useful as living proof of the revolution’s success than as another body in the canals. Anya was a good and loyal Russian. Anastasia was a counter-revolutionary. The two couldn’t coexist. Whichever she was, she was watching him with her chin held high.

“And yet we’re _both_ in Paris, comrade.”

Her voice was cool, mocking, and it infuriated him. Why _hadn’t_ he shot her last time? What had kept him from ending it there? One shot, a splatter of blood across a opera box, and the threat would be gone; Anya wouldn’t have been afraid, wouldn’t have had time to realize what happened. Despite his loyalty, he recoiled from the thought, his hand clenching into a fist. Russia, his father, history herself called for Anastasia to stay dead, and no upstart street sweeper could be allowed to change that, no matter how the thought hurt. He took a deep breath and brushed his hair back from his face. Anya was nothing more than a street sweeper and if she didn’t force this, then perhaps ...

“ _If_ you are Anastasia,” he challenged, unsure how to phrase the question, “do you think history wants you to have lived?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Her voice was fierce as she stepped closer and for a moment there was no fear in her face. “Why don’t _you_?”

He stepped closer as well, looming over her, and there was a flicker of fear in her eyes. The question itself was laughable: why would Gleb want a Romanov to live? The execution of the Tsar and his family had been the only way to save Russia from their tyranny, to free them from slavery to a cruel and uncaring master. He almost laughed, gesturing to the picture she made: the Grand Duchess’s clothing was bought with money stolen from Russians like him. His voice was accusatory.

“The Romanovs were given everything and gave back _nothing_ \- until the Russian people rose up to _destroy_ them!”

“All but one,” she corrected him sharply, and Gleb felt like a trapdoor opened under his feet; he stumbled back, his back slamming into the wall and knocking the breath from him. Anya’s lips curled into a cruel smile - no warmth this time - and she spread her arms, making herself a perfect target. “Finish it. I am my father’s daughter.”

“And I am my father’s son!” he snapped, pulling the pistol from where it nestled at the small of his back. Anya’s eyes widened and she took another step back, eyes fixed on the gun - and her eyes were so, _so_ blue. How had he not seen them, that first day on the street? How had he ever mistaken them for anything but Romanov eyes? How had he not remembered seeing them on the other side of a metal gate, shocked and confused and begging for him, for anyone to save her from her fate? She wasn’t begging to be saved now; her eyes focused somewhere past him, on a scene he wasn’t privy to.

“In me,” she hissed, “you see them. Look at their faces in mine - hear their screams, see their terror!”

Gleb wanted to look away, suddenly, but Anya’s wide eyes held him more firmly than if she’d grabbed him. He’d never wanted to admit that the Tsar’s children had been blameless; they weren’t innocent, but they couldn’t be blamed for their birth. Anastasia had only been a year older than he was when she’d been led away to die, and if she was Anya, then she’d done _nothing_ since that night to deserve execution. If Anya wasn’t Anastasia, then her only crime was trying to find out who she was, and being very, morbidly, wrong.

Was that worthy of death?

“The Romanovs _died_ that night,” he said sharply. “My father was a guard; he obeyed orders. There are no Romanovs left!”

Anya’s eyes were wide, and she pressed a hand to her head for a half-second before her gaze landed on him, and Gleb almost shuddered.

“I survived that night,” she corrected. “Do this, and I will be back in that cellar in Yekaterinburg all over again!”

“Orders must be _obeyed_ ,” Gleb insisted, and tried to ignore the spark of anger in her gaze. Her words, her expression, it all pained too vivid of a picture around him, the cellar where the Romanovs had been led, that night, the pride in their faces - not pride, but proud resignation and bravery, just like Anya’s expression now, and perhaps his father _had_ died of shame after what he had done that night, perhaps it _was_ shameful…

“My parents, my brother, my sisters,” Anya said inexorably, staring him down with such hatred that Gleb nearly wilted, “all taken from me by men following _orders!_ ”

“We all do what we must,” he protested, a phrase he’d relied on in Russia when he’d felt his commitment flagging. For Russia, they all did what was necessary. “Whether it is to write, to sweep, to - to obey our orders, we do what we must, Anya, without regards to _happiness_ -”

Neither of them was wholly present, but they were both thinking of the same night, the same place: ten years ago, in a cellar in Yekaterinburg. Gleb had heard the thunder of bullets, and then the screams of the children had cut out into a cold, unforgiving silence, and he had _known_ what had happened before his father even returned a changed man. If he shot Anya, Gleb realized with a painful clarity, he wouldn’t survive it. He might go home but part of him - some critical part - would be left in a pool of blood in Paris, with those blue eyes that would never open again and the smile he’d never see.

_For Russia, we do what’s necessary._

He stepped forward and brought the pistol up, aimed between her eyes.

“For the last time,” he demanded, as though she might change her answer and he could salvage this, “who are you?”

“ _I am_ -" She stood proud, her shoulders squared, and a step brought her so close he couldn't possibly miss, even if he tried. "- the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.”

“Then I have _no choice_ ,” he murmured, and she watched with those cold Romanov eyes as he moved to pull the trigger. For a moment, he felt like two people; his father had faced the same dilemma and chosen to pull the trigger, had chosen to end an innocent life and lived with the consequences. The revolution had necessitated it, but the revolution had been over for ten years, and try as he might, Gleb couldn’t see the the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov before him. It was simply Anya, the way she had always been, and her eyes weren’t Romanov eyes after all.

They were _Anya’s_ eyes, brave and terrified all in one.

There had never really been a choice for him.

“I can’t.” Gleb fell to his knees with a choked sob, and the gun clattered to the floor. He yanked his hand back as though he’d been burned.”I can’t.”

It was quiet for a long, horrible moment. Gleb wanted to say more, but there was nothing else to say; he’d failed. Like a good soldier, he waited in silence for the verdict, and finally, Anya moved towards him. Her steps sounded loudly on the tile floor, her every motion royal, and he _ached_ in a way that went deeper than physical.

He would deserve whatever she did to him. His eyes flickered to the gun and then to her and he closed his eyes and waited.

“I mean you no harm, Gleb,” she said softly, and he flinched as her hand brushed his hair back from his face. A moment later he reached up to catch her hand in his and hold it to his cheek; if this was all he had before he returned to Russia to be shot, then he would take it.

“I believe you are Anastasia -” He hated the taste of it on his lips, because Anya had always been Anastasia and he couldn’t deny how pathetically in love with her he was. After everything, he had fallen in love with the last Romanov. “- and I believe history will damn me for not pulling the trigger as surely as if I had.”

In the old Russia, people had asked the Tsar for absolution; Gleb would settle for forgiveness. They stayed like that, Gleb silently begging for something he had no right to ask for, for what might’ve been minutes or what might’ve been hours.

Her hand pulled free to gently card through his hair again, and he shuddered as her hand fell back to her side.

“You’re shaking,” she said, finally, and Gleb glanced up at her in shock. She seemed pensive, not playful, despite the words. “What will you tell them?”

“That I was not my father’s son after all,” he said simply, shocked how easily the words came - but she’d always been able to coax words from him without trying. “That when the moment came, I was unfit.”

“They’ll shoot you,” she said, and he nodded.

“I know.”

They stayed like that for another impossible length of time. Gleb wanted to admit it all - how painfully he loved her, how he knew he _should_ kill her but he knew he never could, how he would go back to Russia and somehow his heart would stay here, with her. But none of that was Anya’s fault; none of that was her burden. So he was silent, and finally Anya spoke.

“You have other options, Gleb.”

Of all the responses, he hadn’t been expecting her to mock him with his own words. He grimaced. “What other options but the one I’ve chosen, _Anastasia?_ ” He’d never addressed her by the name before, but it was the _truth_ ; she deserved at least that much from him.

“The Grand Duchess Anastasia is dead,” she said solemnly, “She was killed ten years ago.” Anya sunk to her knees, her beautiful skirt pooling around her, and stroked his cheek. “I have a grandmother; I have a name. I’m not the woman who was led into that cellar. I’ve realized I never will be.” Gleb had stopped breathing, his heart thundering in his ears.  “I’m not going to the press conference,” Anya said decisively. “I’m going to speak to my grandmother, and then I’m going to board a train out of Paris.”

She was giving up her position and she was making sure he knew it. Gleb couldn’t figure out why she’d give up after so long, unless … she was trying to save _his_ life when he returned to Russia. If Anastasia didn’t surface, then he had done his job. He could hold his head high as Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, the man who’d taken up the mantle of his father and ended the Romanov threat once and for all. All due to Anastasia’s sacrifice - and Gleb had never wanted charity from anyone, least of all from a Romanov.

Least of all from Anya, who deserved so much better.

“If this is pity,” he said, voice low and savage, “I don’t want it.”

“It’s not,” she assured him, and truly smiled at last. The sunshine feeling of her smile almost reached him. “Come with me, Gleb.”

He felt like she’d punched him in the stomach, unable to do more than stare openmouthed as she hesitated, then stood and brushed the dust from her skirt. He was still kneeling before her, the gun still within arm’s reach, and she was offering so much more than forgiveness, so much more than he’d ever thought to asked for.

“ _Anya -_ ” He couldn’t form words, couldn’t make a decision, and he was suddenly afraid she’d laugh at him and walk away, mock him for having the audacity to think she could forgive him. Whatever she did, he’d deserve it, but having the tiny spark of hope ripped from him would be unbearable.

“I’ll buy two tickets. I’ll be at the platform for the four o’clock train.” She didn’t mock him; she didn’t laugh. Her face was serious despite the shaky smile and when she reached out to him again he caught her hand, pressed a kiss into the palm of her glove. She shivered and didn’t pull away. “If you want to come with me, meet me there. If not -” She took a deep breath. “- if not, I wish you long life, comrade.” She squeezed his hand one last time, smiled a farewell, and walked away.

Gleb was left breathless, kneeling on the floor by his discarded pistol, and suddenly, dizzyingly sure that Anya had killed the Deputy Commissioner Vaganov without firing a shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see more, the same scene from Anya's perspective can be found [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11380170/chapters/26194017)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov was nothing but a dream. A dream neither I nor any other Russian should cling to any longer; the search is through. The reward for Anastasia’s safe return will be donated to charity, to help those who are still looking for their families. So - no more talk of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov. The dream has ended, and we will all move forward. Russia is a wound that we must let heal.”

“Dmitry.”

The young man was leaning on the railing of the bridge, staring out into the river thoughtfully, and he jumped at the sound of his name. _Anya_ \- his heart beat in his throat and he was suddenly struck dumb and mute as he turned to face Anya. She was dressed in a traveling dress, not the ornate gown he’d seen her grandmother send to her with a lady in waiting, and her face was more somber than he would’ve expected.

“Your highness,” he managed, sweeping a hopefully mocking bow. Why come now to bother him? She had to know how he felt - and it wasn’t important anyway, because she was a princess. He was a conman. It wasn’t going to work after all. She was watching him with a curious expression, and Dmitry cleared his throat. “If you’ve come to confess your undying love, I don’t need to hear it. I’m too good for you, anyway.” He smiled, although he felt like his throat was sandpaper. “You should be with your grandmother, Anya.”

“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. She moved to lean against the railing and stare out into the river. Dmitry stared out into the river too; he was too used to mirroring people. “Do you remember when we met?”

“How could I forget?” Dmitry snorted and leaned against the railing too. “You wanted to beg us for papers, if I remember right.”

“I was going to pay,” she protested with a grin, which slipped away quickly. “But maybe not pay enough. You told me to throw myself in a canal.”

_ Oh. _

“I didn’t think -” He cleared his throat again. He felt like a child. “I mean, people say stuff like that all the time, on the streets. It’s the Petersburg way.”

Anya hummed, not quite an agreement. “Nana says you refused her reward.”

“I did.” Dmitry straightened up a little. “It didn’t feel right, after everything.”

“You should’ve taken it. Vlad and Lily are probably going to get married someday - you should have something for yourself.” She smiled, more genuinely. “Besides, it’s not like my nana or I need that much money. No one does. You got me here; you earned the reward.”

“I was lying the whole time,” Dmitry admitted. “Right up until you remembered me, I thought I was lying.”

“I know, and I’ve - I’ve forgiven that.” She was every inch a princess as she looked at him. “It might’ve been a lie, but you brought me here. That’s all that matters now. My nana may not like you - but she will pay you for your services. It’s what’s fair.”

Dmitry nodded slowly, but the pieces had been falling into place. He hadn’t grown up on the streets and come out stupid; stupid street rats ended up floating in the canals and under snowdrifts. Anya wasn’t being wholly honest.

“You’re not staying,” he guessed. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but he had held out hope, for some foolish reason. A hopeless romantic after it all. Anya was his friend, maybe, but if she was leaving and she was telling him to take the reward - “Where will you go?” he asked too sharply, and her eyes narrowed.

“Wherever I want. I have enough money to get by, and I’ve survived worse.” She scoffed. “I could walk across France if I had to.”

“I don’t doubt it, but,” he took a breath and barrelled on, “you shouldn’t go alone, it’s not safe.”

“Neither was Russia, but I survived.” Anya laughed ruefully. “Truth be told, I’m only here to say goodbye to my grandfather’s bridge before our train leaves.” She reached out to touch his hand, lightly.

“You don’t -” He cut himself off, and Anya smiled.

“I have to go,” she said, with a touch of sadness. “Goodbye, Dmitry. I hope we’ll meet again.”

He stood there for a long moment after her footsteps had faded away, It shouldn’t surprise him. They’d said goodbye before she met the Empress and he’d said goodbye when he saw the old woman embrace her. Anastasia was as untouchable and distant as a star, as far away as she had been when they were children and he’d bowed. No matter how much it meant to _him,_ people bowed to the princess all the time. And Anya was his friend, nothing more.

He glanced after her and noticed something had fallen from her pocket when she’d left. He swooped down to pick it up and squinted at the French for a long moment. He wasn't _great_ at languages, but he wasn't stupid. He could figure this out.

As best he could tell, Anya had dropped a receipt for two train tickets to a smaller town in France, for a four o’clock train. Nothing too weird there, except ... _Our train,_ Anya had said, and there were two names on the tickets. Even in the midst of her princess lessons, Anya had never been prone to the royal we. _I_ have _to go,_ she’d said. As though she'd had no choice.

Dmitry glanced at the watch he’d stolen from Vlad; the train had left five minutes ago. He swore and started running.

==

A music box and a note, pressed into Maria Feodorovna’s hands by the fake count who she couldn’t even bother to be angry at. She was trembling slightly - she had expected this, somehow, but it still hurt - as she unfolded the note.

_ My dearest nana,_

_I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person. You’ve no doubt realized by now that I’m not going to the press conference, and you probably know why. I'm sorry to leave without a proper goodbye, but there's no time for one, so I'll be brief._

_I’m your granddaughter but I can’t ever be the Grand Duchess, and it’s unfair to both of us if I try and be someone I’m not. I love you, no matter what - I always will. We will always have each other, nana, but I still need to figure out who I am. I know now who I used to be, so it’ll be a little easier. I’m going to find out who I am now, and perhaps I’ll be able to visit home, in a while._

_Together in Paris, always,_

_Your granddaughter, Anya._

__

Well. Maria had been an empress. She could handle this.

__

“I think we’ve seen the last of that young woman, Lily,” she lied, pushing her emotions down.

__

“Was she Anastasia?” Lily demanded, and Maria smiled blithely. Perhaps they’d believe the Dowager Empress was senile - finally crazy - and that would be enough to forgive her lapse.

__

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said. Anastasia had come back to her, for however short a time, and had left again. Anya knew herself best of all, and she was no more Anastasia than Maria was the empress of Russia. Time had changed them both, and those identities were _old_. Maria admired the woman her granddaughter had become, but she knew she had to let go of the past that had tied her down for so long.

“Your majesty, we _can’t_ hold them off any longer,” Count Popov - Maria supposed she couldn’t begrudge him that, after what he’d done for her - said nervously. She nodded and drew herself up.

__

“Let them in,” she ordered sharply.

__

==

__

Anya was so much less than royal when Gleb found her at the station. Her hair was braided back again and her dress was simple, a traveling outfit that was more French than her street sweeping clothes, but less noticeable than the gown she’d worn when they’d faced each other a few hours before. She was fidgeting with the tickets in her hands, almost tearing the corners, her eyes darting through the crowd. They landed on Gleb, finally, and some of the tension ebbed from her posture.

__

She’d never looked more beautiful.

__

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up,” she admitted as they boarded the train. She’d picked the destination, and he didn’t question it. “I’m used to traveling alone, but -” She shrugged expressively. Gleb couldn’t blame her reluctance to elaborate; just a few hours before, they’d been enemies. Something had changed between them when he’d looked into her eyes and been unable to pull the trigger, something he suspected neither of them knew how to address. Now, they were traveling companions.

__

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said as gently as he could. “We’re equals here.”

__

“A shame we had to leave Russia for it.” Anya laughed tiredly, nodding to the compartment. Gleb pulled the door open and she moved to stow her luggage on the rack. “Do you think they sent anyone else?”

__

“I have no way of knowing,” he said honestly, putting his own small suitcase next to hers and sitting tensely. “I told my commanding officer that I’d gone to see the Grand Duchess and finish it once and for all.”

__

“You told him this before or after you went to do just that?” she asked, falling into the seat across from him, and Gleb smiled wryly.

__

“After. He never liked updates without real developments.”

__

“What else did you say?” she probed, cocking her head to the side.

__

“I said that she was a fake, and I would deal with her.” He glanced out the window, at the crowds milling about.  “I said there would be guards. With any luck, they’ll assume I shot you and was shot in turn.”

__

When he looked at her, Anya was thoughtful. “And if they don’t?”

__

“They’ll send another officer after us.” He was still getting used to the idea of _us_ , the word unfamiliar on his lips. “Don’t worry. The least I owe you is to make sure you’re safe.”

__

“You don’t _owe me_ anything, Gleb.” She raised an eyebrow. “If you’re only here out of some sort of guilt, you can leave and go anywhere you want, I’ll pay for the ticket -”

__

“No, Anya.” He leaned across the compartment and caught her hand in his impulsively. “I promise you, I’m not here out of guilt.”

__

She met his gaze for a moment, and Gleb held his breath. Then Anya smiled and he felt warmth coil around his heart. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

__

==

__

Maria’s voice was strong as she spoke into the microphone. Alexander would have called it _regal_ , and it didn’t shake at all. Maria Feodorovna could be proud of that at least.

__

“The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov was nothing but a dream. A dream neither I nor any other Russian should cling to any longer; the search is through. The reward for Anastasia’s safe return will be donated to charity, to help those who are still looking for their families. So - no more talk of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov. The dream has ended, and we will all move forward. Russia is a wound that we must let heal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After it all, we have finished! Thank you to _everyone_ who kept with me through this.
> 
> Special thanks goes to [Jacq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue3ski/pseuds/blue3ski), who's excellent fic _Comrade and Princess_ was largely written along with CTNP and was a major motivator to get it done. If you've liked CTNP, I would suggest reading her writing - it's all excellent!
> 
> Another thanks to the discord server for supporting and motivating me to keep going through this. I love hearing exactly how I hurt each and every one of y'all.
> 
> (HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: There may or may not be a sequel to this fanfic, if there's interest. It's very much in the works now, but there's no promise that it'll come out in any timely fashion.)
> 
> As ever, I can be found at [vampyrekatwrites](https://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com) if you want to speak to me! I love hearing from all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to message me on [tumblr](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Citrus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12377133) by [Her_Madjesty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty)




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